


Disdain takes a holiday, too

by stateofintegrity



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-11 10:13:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28349697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stateofintegrity/pseuds/stateofintegrity
Summary: Follows "Death takes a the holiday" and imagines that Max stayed to visit.
Relationships: Maxwell Klinger/Charles Emerson Winchester III
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10





	Disdain takes a holiday, too

**Author's Note:**

  * For [swamp_thing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/swamp_thing/gifts).



“Merry Christmas… Charles.”

It is the first time this gentle Corporal in his worn fur, with his wasp-waist and his gold-bright grin, has ever said his name. He is being seen as a person. A man. Not a rank or a profession or a family legacy he cannot uphold… and Max’s dark eyes are impossibly kind. 

“Wait. Max…  _ stay _ .”

“Sir?”

“It is not proper - that I should eat and you should not. You must be hungry. You were wrangling children all night.”

“Saw that, huh? Just like back home.” But he sounds fond.

“You have, ah, siblings?”

“Cousins. All girls. All younger.” His heart goes quiet when Charles pulls out a seat for him.

“Please.” 

He cannot do otherwise- doesn’t want to, anyway. It’s something, Max reflects, that no one seems to get about him. He doesn’t want his body carved up into a new shape, but, sometimes, he appreciates some of the care the female form receives: a hand on his arm to steady him in heels, a chair pulled out, a car door opened. 

“Thanks.”

Charles continues to play the gentlemen for him - though Max guesses it isn’t play for him; his manners are of as high quality as the rest of him - every lofty, shining inch. As he accepts a mug of tea (a link between them - two tea drinkers in a camp that runs on coffee) he says, “You have a sister, right? Bet it’s hard not ta see her on Christmas.”

“I do. Honoria Evelynne. I was, ah, looking at her photograph when you came in, actually.”

Klinger’s eyes go eager. “Can I see?”

He retrieves the folded album and opens it with a pang. 

“Oh, Major - she’s beautiful. I could design a whole line of dresses with her in mind. Bright colors. Does she got eyes like yours?”

“I do not know precisely what you mean. Her eyes are lilac and gold.” His lips curve. “My grandmother called them fairy child eyes.” 

Max has not yet found what he wants to call Charles’ eyes. No fabric book he owns contains that color, and the Colonel doesn’t understand how much of his soul is caught up in this mission, so he won’t okay Max to go search the Tokyo museum of art. Actually, he can’t stop Max going on his leave; what he  _ won’t  _ do is find Max an interpreter so that if he does find the elusive color, it will finally have a name. 

“You protected her.” He says it without looking up. Charles doesn’t know him well enough yet to know that Max has a knack for sensing such things - just as he was able, at first glance, to know how bone-deep the Major’s loneliness goes. 

“Yes. I wish I was there tonight. Our parents… they can be… distant. Honoria and I always celebrated with each other. When she was, hmm, two or three, perhaps? I started ‘camping’ beside her cradle on Christmas Eve so I could know when she awakened and carry her to the tree. We still camp out - in the living room, now - together each year.” 

This insight charms Max, and he wishes he could pledge himself as a protector of the lovely Miss Winchester, too. “I got a bayberry candle I wish on every year, Major. I’ll wish on it tonight you get back to her for the next Christmas, how’s that?”

“That is extraordinarily kind, Maxwell. But will it not use up a wish you had set aside for yourself?” He is very conscious, in that moment, of the fact that Max has been here much longer than him, and that surgeons earn service points more quickly than non-comms. 

Max looks down and his slender shoulders shift, disarranging his scarf. “I uh, well, maybe you could help me with that.” He glances up, eyes shy under perilously long lashes that must, Charles can’t help thinking, catch snowflakes in them! 

“Of course. Please.” He expects something in the line of a section eight (if I get the other signatures, would you sign, too, sir, please?) - but it’s nothing like that. 

“I know we’re real different and you would never talk to me outsida war… but since we’re stuck here, I thought about maybe wishin’ that you’d let me be your friend.” He ducks his head again and Charles thinks of tipping his sharp chin. 

The Major cannot remember anyone else ever making such a request. 

Max offers a further incentive. “Just, y’know, when we get times like this, to ourselves. You could play me the songs you like. Maybe teach me about them? And I won’t tell the Captains - in case they’d tease you about it or something.”

His sister’s picture is looking up at him, open.  _ You don’t h-have to l-let them know we are r-related, Ch-Charles. They will o-only make f-fun of you, t-t-too.  _

_ Oh Honey-vine,  _ he thinks.  _ This gentle little thing, so often in a dress… I will write and ask your opinion to be sure… but I think he is like you. Like me. Alone - and hurting for it.  _

“I, uh, I guess I better go, sir. S-sorry.” 

But Charles catches his wrist, notes the fingerless gloves Max probably uses to sew, but which offer little protection against Winter’s teeth. “I apologize, I was thinking of my sister. I would be honored to be your friend, Max - and I think she will, too.”

He sits back down - mostly - because he is stunned. Right then, the two begin to become the best and dearest of friends, a journey that never ends for the rest of their lives.

End! 

  
  



End file.
